


Bowline

by brinnanza



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Established Relationship, Light Bondage, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-26 03:22:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7558234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Julian gets a little tied up, but it's Garak that can't seem to move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bowline

**Author's Note:**

> The initial idea for this fic came from [this post + my tags](http://brinnanza.tumblr.com/post/147069530881/otpprompts-imagine-your-otp-about-to-have) and then Garak got his lizard issues all over it because boy howdy does the the lizard have issues. Bits and pieces of Cardassian reproductive biology [borrowed from tinsnip](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1719479). Thanks to Jazzy and Ashley for looking this over and general cheerleading.

“Stop laughing.”

Garak is, in fact, taking great pains to stifle the urge despite the fairly ridiculous tableau before him. Surely the single sharp exhale that had escaped his control hardly counted.

“I’m doing nothing of the kind,” he protests. He spreads his hands out peaceably in front of him, though the projection of wide-eyed innocence is, unfortunately, lost on Julian right at the moment.

“Liar,” Julian says, a healthy measure of affection in the word. His voice is slightly muffled by the fabric covering his face and binding his arms up over his head. “And don’t you dare be pleased by that assessment. This wouldn’t have happened if you’d design less complicated clothing.”

“Funny,” Garak says mildly, “I don’t recall ever having a problem.”

The evening had started out so promising -- when Julian arrived at Garak’s quarters for dinner, he’d been dressed not in the hideously utilitarian Starfleet jumpsuit but, to Garak’s immense pleasure, fitted trousers and the green silk shirt Garak had given him for his last birthday. The shirt featured a series of interwoven strips of fabric across the upper chest and back that rather fetchingly displayed both the shoulders and collarbone. It was perhaps a bit scandalous for daywear, but Garak hadn’t really intended it for public viewing.

He’d been so looking forward to unwrapping this gift after the meal, but Julian had paired his grilled fish with a glass or two too many of wine and that, combined with the long day he’d had in the infirmary, had left him a little punch drunk. He’d skittered away from Garak’s attempts to slowly unlace him, nibbling at each patch of newly bared skin, and instead put on music and directed Garak over to the couch, clearly intending to remove the shirt himself from several feet away.

Not that Garak doesn’t appreciate the aesthetics of a skilled striptease. He’d been extremely appreciative of the way Julian’s slim hips swayed in time to the music, the way his hands roamed over his body -- so much so that it had required quite an effort to remain seated on the couch instead of pinning Julian against the nearest wall and devouring him. But then Julian had tried to pull the shirt off over his head -- the exact wrong way to remove such a garment -- and somehow managed to thoroughly entangle himself in it.

“Perhaps I’ll just wear my uniform next time,” Julian says now. The scowl on his face is obscured by the fabric, but it’s audible in his voice. He wriggles around a little, trying valiantly to free himself, but the Kelvani silk holds firm.

“There’s no need to be hasty,” Garak says, suppressing a shudder. Julian’s uniform may be comfortable, as he tells Garak regularly, but it does his trim figure no favors, and Garak has seriously considered banning it from his quarters entirely. Julian’s taste in off-duty attire leaves something to be desired as well (“something” in this case being unseared retinas), but it’s only a matter of time before Garak manages to replace all of Julian’s non-uniform clothing with his own selections.

“Are you going to help me or not?” Julian says, trying to pull his arms free again. A lesser garment would surely have popped its seams by now, but the shirt remains intact. Not that anyone could accuse Garak of poor workmanship, but he does feel a vague sense of pride that his sewing can stand up to the sartorially destructive Julian Bashir.

Garak gets up from the couch and crosses the room to Julian on silent feet. It would be quick work to free him -- a few snips here and there, along the seam -- but it would be a shame to pass up such an opportunity without first exploring all of its delicious possibilities.

The bottom hem of the shirt, designed to skim the hips, has ridden up high enough on Julian’s torso to reveal several inches of bare skin, and Garak looks his fill, soaking it up like summer sunlight. The dip of Julian’s navel is just visible, practically begging for a darting taste with the tip of Garak’s tongue, and his trousers cling to his hips in a way that is sure to become obscene in short order.

“Garak?” Julian prompts, his voice a little peeved. “I feel silly; can you just--”

“Patience, my dear,” Garak murmurs against his ear, and Julian startles magnificently. The shirt obscures the pretty blush surely blooming in his cheeks, but the audible increase in the speed of his breathing is a fine consolation prize.

Garak runs one fingertip across Julian’s stomach, just above his trousers. “Perhaps I like you this way,” he says. “Immobilized, at my mercy…. Why, just think of the things I could do to you.” Garak’s mind helpfully fills in the blanks left by his words, intoxicating images that have his neck ridges already swelling in anticipation. Julian is hardly in a position to stop him.

There’s a salt tang in the air that has Garak unconsciously licking his lips -- ah, yes, there are dark patches forming on the fabric of the shirt where Julian is sweating. Garak grips one of Julian’s hips, his fingers digging into the thin skin, and Julian swallows hard. Garak could do anything, and Julian, sweet, naive Julian who trusts him so completely, would _let him._

Garak suppresses a shiver. The voice of a long-dead ghost curls around his ear, whispering suggestions of where to apply pressure for maximum yield. _Just here_ , it murmurs in dulcet tones. _Hardly any pressure at all right here and he’ll be begging for death._

There may yet be begging, but of an altogether different sort. Garak banishes the voice from his thoughts, sending it scurrying back to the locked compartment in his mind where it stays until he needs it.

“I’m beginning to think you care more about this shirt than you do about me,” Julian says. It’s an attempt at levity, but there’s a strained quality to his voice that betrays his arousal. He shifts his hips a little and the motion draws Garak’s eye down to where Julian’s arousal is making a rather more physical appearance. The corner of Garak’s mouth quirks up -- the human body is so charmingly incapable of obfuscation.

“Are you quite sure?” Garak says. He traces his finger down the hard line at the front of Julian’s trousers, his touch feather-light, and Julian’s breath hitches. “I think you’re enjoying this.”

Julian hesitates, and then he admits, “My arms are getting tired.”

Garak heaves a heavy put-upon sigh, his fun spoiled. “Very well. I’ll get the scissors.” He leaves Julian standing in the middle of the room and fetches the spare sewing shears he keeps in his quarters. “Don’t move,” he instructs when he returns. “These are quite sharp.” 

Julian lets out a quiet gasp when the cold metal of the scissors brushes against his skin, but he holds absolutely still. It’s almost a shame, Garak thinks idly. How lovely Julian’s skin would look with a tracery of red. Humans bleed so easily -- it would hardly take a scratch.

Garak cuts through the strips of fabric tangled around Julian’s arms and up the side seam. The remains of the shirt flutter to the ground in a puddle of ruined silk, probably beyond all hope of repair. Garak scoops it up off of the floor while Julian stretches, rubbing feeling back into his arms.

“That’s better,” Julian says brightly. His hair is attractively rumpled and his cheeks are still faintly pink. All in all, Garak supposes it’s a net gain -- he does so love to watch Julian’s failed attempts to conceal his emotions. “I’m sorry about the shirt though -- can you fix it?”

“Doubtful,” Garak says, frowning as he inspects it. “Though there may yet be a use for it.” He steps forward and slides a hand up Julian’s back and into his hair so he can draw him close for a hungry kiss.

Julian’s eyes drift closed and he presses forward against Garak, deepening the kiss. While he’s distracted, Garak gathers both of his wrists to the small of his back and deftly knots the remains of the shirt around them.

“Oh!” Julian says, his eyes flying open. He tugs at the bonds, testing the hold, and then his eyes go dark. “ _Oh_.”

He rolls his hips against Garak’s, and Garak hooks a finger around the make-shift ties and pulls him backwards. “Ah ah ah,” Garak chides. “What’s the human phrase -- ‘Good things come to those who wait’?”

Julian bats his eyelashes in a vain attempt at seduction. “Haven’t I done enough waiting?” he says, pulling against Garak’s grip.

“Not by half, I’m afraid,” Garak says. He pitches his voice low, using the steely tone that never fails to make Julian shiver. “I think you’ll find it worth the wait.”

As anticipated, Julian’s breath goes shallow, and Garak allows himself just the hint of a smug smile. “Come with me,” he says, giving Julian’s wrists a light tug toward the bedroom.

“Oh, I intend to,” says Julian with a rakish grin, and Garak swats at his rear. It’s hardly just punishment for such a crude line, but he pairs it with a disappointed look down his nose, and Julian drops his gaze to the floor, pretending at contrition even as his eyes sparkle with mirth.

Garak settles his hands on Julian’s smooth shoulders and steers him to the side of the bed. At his firm, downward pressure, Julian drops to his knees with fluid grace and looks up at Garak with heavy-lidded eyes.

Julian’s usual breakneck pace has no place here, so Garak takes his time undressing, folding each garment carefully and stacking them neatly on the chair in the corner of the room. Julian tracks his movements, but he stays put, endearingly eager to please as usual.

Garak sits down on the edge of the bed in front of Julian, parting his knees slightly. It’s tempting to try his patience, to hold still until Julian begs for it (heat flares up low in Garak’s belly at the thought), but Julian drags his tongue over his lower lip and Garak’s mouth goes abruptly dry. His whole life has been one long exercise in waiting -- for information, for the moment to strike, for the chance to go home again -- but it seems his patience has met its match in one impossibly stubborn human doctor.

They lock eyes briefly, and it’s all the permission Julian needs to rush forward, bending his head to nip at Garak’s inner thighs with sharp teeth before soothing each bite with sucking kisses and a lap of his tongue. He’s far too gentle -- he barely leaves a bruise, much less breaks the skin -- but Garak is panting indecently anyway, fighting the urge to twist his fingers in Julian’s hair.

Julian runs his tongue along the slit of Garak’s sheath until it blooms, allowing him entrance. He curls his tongue inside, licking along the sensitive nerves there, and Garak has to grip the edge of the bed and clamp down hard on his control before he everts before he’s ready. 

Shifting internal pressure is building, far, far too early. His own impatience is shameful, but he’s rapidly approaching the point where he no longer has a say. “Julian,” he warns, and Julian moves his mouth to compensate so when Garak’s cock slides out of its sheath, nearly of its own accord, it slips neatly between Julian’s lips.

Julian’s mouth must surely have been made for this exact task, Garak thinks as Julian flicks his tongue over the fine scaling at the base of Garak’s cock. He groans, and words slip from his lips as Julian’s mouth lays him bare. It’s nonsense mostly -- half-vocalized pleas he tries to swallow back and phrases unsuitable for polite conversation, but there are secrets piling up behind his teeth too. It would just take a word, half a question at best before he’s revealing anything and everything.

Julian is moaning around Garak’s cock, loud and wanton. His hands pull at the silk securing his wrists, clearly in need of some friction of his own, but it doesn’t give. Garak is suddenly desperate for more contact, to feel all the miles of Julian’s deliciously warm skin against his own.

“Come here,” he chokes out, and Julian obeys instantly, surging upward to press his mouth against Garak’s. Garak flicks open his trousers, getting one hand around his cock, and then wraps his other arm around Julian’s waist, pulling him close so they’re flush against each other.

“Fuck me,” Julian demands, and Garak obliges, helpless to resist. He pushes Julian’s trousers down and off and then presses into him. “Oh -- yes -- just like that.”

Garak lies back on the bed, steadying Julian with his hands on his hips. Julian wriggles from side to side every time his ass meets Garak’s thighs, and the friction against the most sensitive part of his anatomy nearly sends him over the precipice of release after barely minutes.

He’s still speaking, he realizes dimly, but it’s all sibilants, primal hissing noises of pleasure that hardly qualify as speech. This is old language, hard-coded hindbrain cries of need that he should have control over.

But this is what Julian does to him -- reduces him to nerves and sound and need until the only thought in Garak’s head is _yes, yes more_. It’s so terribly reckless to cede control like this -- if Julian were a millimeter less than the man he is, Garak would be ruined. He half-expects it to happen anyway -- control freely given is something to be exploited, to be utilized in pursuance of loftier goals. Tain’s voice whispers recriminations in his ear, but Julian’s moans are just a little bit louder, just enough to drown it out.

Julian throws his head back, his lips wet and slightly parted. He’s gorgeous like this, riding Garak’s cock and taking his own pleasure. Garak drinks it in -- the flush spreading across Julian’s chest, the high-pitched panting breaths that sharpen into cries, the way Julian’s ass swallows up Garak’s cock like it was molded for him.

Garak’s stamina is no match for Julian’s youth and physique and enhancements, and so he tips over the edge, his fingers gripping bruises into Julian’s hips.

“Oh -- Garak -- touch me,” Julian gasps, grinding down against Garak’s hips. There is sunlight humming through Garak’s veins in the aftermath of release, and he does as he’s told, stroking one hand roughly along Julian’s cock. “Oh, god, yes, yes!” Julian cries, and then he’s coming, slack-jawed and criminally, dangerously beautiful.

Julian flops down on the bed beside Garak, resting his chin on Garak’s shoulder to give him a satisfied grin, his eyelids already drooping. Garak kisses him softly, his own lips curving up into an answering smile. 

“Shall I release you?” he says, reaching for the blade he keeps in a hidden compartment in the headboard as Julian rolls his shoulders, wrists still bound.

“I thought you liked me this way,” Julian teases, angling his head so he can nip at Garak’s shoulder. “You wouldn’t rather keep me tied up a little longer?”

“Don’t tempt me, Doctor,” Garak answers, and Julian sticks his tongue out at him.

Garak braces his hand on Julian’s shoulder and leans over to carefully slice through the silk binding his wrists. He makes a mental note to seek out something more suitable than tattered scraps of Kelvani silk for next time -- Tellurian cotton rope, maybe, or the Andorian synthetic he’d just gotten in.

Julian flexes his hands, making sure there’s no damage from the bindings, and then curls up beside Garak, his head pillowed on Garak’s shoulder. His skin is warm like desert sand, and he closes his eyes, drowsing.

Garak presses a kiss to the smooth, ridgeless plane of Julian’s forehead. He can’t seem to stop giving himself away in every touch, every word, every fleeting expression he fights to keep hidden behind the veneer of friendly tailor. Julian makes him want to confess, every soft smile an absolution that Garak doesn’t deserve.

He wonders briefly what will happen when he runs out of secrets, when Julian sees right to the core of him, all his masks scattered around the floor like so many dead leaves.

Perhaps he already does.

**Author's Note:**

> I did a sketch of Julian dressed in this outfit from this fic, which can be found on Tumblr [here](http://brinnanza.tumblr.com/post/147260984036/the-evening-had-started-out-so-promising-when) if you're interested.


End file.
